A Little Problem
by Guivana
Summary: He had only tried to give Mr. Edgeworth a good birthday present. But what should have been the best present Miles Edgeworth had ever had ended up being the smallest, strangest, and best problem Dick Gumshoe had ever had. GumshoexEdgeworth
1. Chapter One: The Beginning

"Uhhnf." A tall, broad-shouldered man let out a sigh as he exited the police precinct, the glass door clicking shut behind him as he left. It had been a long day for the weary detective, and he could think of nothing he would like more than a warm bath in his cozy – if snug – apartment. A luxury he was especially looking forward to because he'd had a call last week from a smug-sounding woman that, if he didn't pay the water bill by Tuesday (and today was Sunday), the water would be shut off. On his salary, it was a guarantee that he'd never be able to pay, and so he was going to get what use he could out of the water he had left.

Unfortunately for the troubled man, however, it would be a while yet before he could take that bath. Given that his apartment was a good four miles from the precinct and he hadn't a car or even a bicycle to make the trip faster or easier, he was sure he'd be on the verge of fainting when he finally arrived at the ramshackle place he called home.

Dick Gumshoe allowed his mind to wander as he strode, his eyes drifting towards the dusty sidewalk. Today had been the eve of a court session for Mr. Edgeworth, which meant a lot of scurrying about, evidence collecting, and carefully timed compliments from the detective to prevent the young prosecutor from blowing his top. He'd only been yelled at once that day, something for which he was immensely relieved; the less he was chastised, the less his next paycheck would hurt (and he was convinced that if they continued to put it through so much misery, it would eventually croak altogether). To buoy his happiness at that fact further, the criticism had not been from Mr. Edgeworth, the chief, or anyone of particular importance – he'd been screamed at by another detective when he had said, not realizing that the man he was talking to had made it, that the coffee that day tasted as though something had died in it.

Yes, all in all a rather good day indeed, save his current fatigue.

He was kicking idly at pebbles in the street when a glint caught his eye. Turning his gaze, he saw a shimmery red sphere, slightly larger than a marble, rolling slowly towards him. Curiously, he stooped to pick it up.

"Oh! Young man!" He turned to face the voice, still hunched over the sphere, and saw an elderly woman, wreathed in a tattered old shawl, slowly making her way towards him. "That's mine, dear," she called to him. He smiled and picked it up, closing the distance between them and holding out the curious little stone with a smile. "Thank you," she said warmly as she took it from him. She stuffed the orb into a small leather bag.

"You're welcome," he answered, and turned to continue on his way.

"Oh, could I ask a favor of you?" the woman said quickly. He turned back to her, listening expectantly. "You see, I dropped all of these... well, never mind what they are. All of them in this area, so you won't have to go searching. But I have a touch of arthritis, so I'd prefer not to bend over to get them. There's only three others... could you pick them up for me?"

Gumshoe hesitated very briefly. Tired as he was, she was an old woman, and he'd been taught manners. Besides which, it would take hardly any time at all. With a broad smile, he sought out the other spheres and retrieved them, handing them back to the woman after only moments.

"Thank you dear," she said as she put them away and pocketed the pouch, her eyes twinkling.

"You're welcome," he said again, and once more turned away.

"Oh, one more thing..." Gumshoe bit back a groan, hoping she didn't need another favor, and turned. "As a way of expressing my gratitude, I'd like to offer you something." Gumshoe perked up, hoping that it might be money she intended to thank him with. He was slightly disappointed when, instead, she pulled a tiny vial from under her shawl, swirling with a vivid blue liquid.

What is this?" he asked, perplexed, as he took the bottle.

Her eyes twinkled mysteriously. "It is a very special drink, and you should count yourself lucky to obtain it. It usually fetches a very high price, and you can onle even find it for sale if you know whee to look." Gumshoe frowned, frustrated that the answer wasn't really an answer at all. The woman must have sensed this, for she laughed and continued, "Drink this, and your dreams shall come true. Be warned, however, that it will last only for one moon. After that, the magic will be undone." Before the startled detective had any chance to answer, she set off in the opposite direction, at a speed that was far faster than the hobble she'd displayed moments ago. Gumshoe was tempted to call after her but decided against it, instead continuing home as he turned over the vial in his hand.

It was impossible, that much was obvious. But how many other things had he encountered that ought to have been impossible? He'd seen more people come back from the dead than he could shake a stick at, for starters. If Gumshoe compared the woman's claim to some of the things he'd witnessed first-hand, it seemed plausible that what she said was true.

Which led to a new question – how to use it? Something that made dreams come true – now that sounded like something a lot of people would be happy to have. Suddenly, one person in particular came to mind. Gumshoe recalled hearing one of the prosecutors mention earlier that day that Mr. Edgeworth's birthday was tomorrow. What better gift could he possibly give? He grinned, confident that no one else would be able to match such a gift, as it would be whatever the prosecutor wanted. Overjoyed at the thought, his pace lightened into almost a skip.

Mr. Edgeworth was going to have the best birthday ever.


	2. Chapter Two: The Present

Gumshoe hopped nervously from foot to foot as he stood before Mr. Edgeworth's office, trying to work up the courage to go in. Birthday or not, the prosecutor was in a foul mood after losing another case to Wright, and Gumshoe was particularly wary about approaching Mr. Edgeworth as he knew that it was somewhat his fault. Wright had, like always, found a way to turn the detective's testimony and evidence to his own advantage. Secretly, Gumshoe thought that the defense attorney was rather brilliant, but never dared to say so aloud, terrified that Mr. Edgeworth would somehow find out. Taking a deep breath, he gathered every ounce of bravery he had and cautiously turned the knob.

He was met instantly with the iciest glare he'd ever been subjected to and, somewhere under his fear, he found himself marveling at how much the prosecutor could say without uttering a word. "M-Mr. Edgew-worth?" he stammered.

"_What?_" In a single word, the young man spat out all the venom that had previously been in his eyes, and the detective winced.

"Well, um... h-happy birthday, sir."

To his surprise, he was not ordered out immediately, or threatened with a pay cut, or even coldly informed that it was none of his business. Instead, the prosecutor seemed not to have heard him at all, for he did not answer for several moments. Finally, however, he said, in a soft and weary voice, "Thank you."

Gumshoe was taken aback, but grateful nonetheless, and so, fear abating, he stepped forward and pulled from his worn trenchcoat the vial he'd been given yesterday. "Here, sir."

Edgeworth eyed the bottle warily, two facts immediately surfacing in his mind. One: he knew that the detective was a piss-poor cook, and anything he prepared was next to impossible to force down, and sometimes hazardous to one's health. Two: the color blue was _never_ meant to be consumed. "What is this?" he asked, wondering if he didn't want to know the answer.

Gumshoe hesitated. He suspected that if he told the prosecutor the truth about the nature of the liquid, Mr. Edgeworth was guaranteed not to drink it. The man rigidly disbelieved in anything supernatural or out of the ordinary – anything that could not be explained by modern science. This certainly fell into that category. Thinking fast, he answered, "Uhh, it's... well... Imadesomejuiceforyouforyourbirthdayandhere'salittlebitsoyoucanseeifyoulikeit."

Edgeworth had noticed the hesitation, and wasn't sure if he believed that the detective was being honest. If he was, what it meant was that the detective had probably made some sort of artificial fruit punch from a mix, as no juice was naturally blue. Nor was he sure that he'd even heard the answer correctly, rushed as it had been. However, as he eyed the liquid, he determined that it was a small enough amount that it couldn't do any harm. After all, that much liquid would only be hazardous if it were pure poison, and even Dick Gumshoe wasn't stupid enough to somehow confuse poison for juice. Sighing, he removed the stopper and downed the contents.

It was like nothing he'd ever tasted before. It was warm and cool all at once, and tasted of every flavor he'd ever liked, all put together in a bizarre medley that somehow managed to work. His throat felt raw as he swallowed, and he wondered what the drink could possibly have been, certain now that it was _not_ juice.

"What _was _that?" Edgeworth demanded, standing up. When Gumshoe opened his mouth to respond, the prosecutor continued, "Don't think about calling it 'juice' again. No juice, even the tacky sugar water mix that actually _does_ come in blue, tastes or feels like that. And if you've poisoned me, I'll make sure everyone in this precinct knows before I hit the floor." He was positively livid.

Gumshoe cringed. At least he could tell the truth now; Mr. Edgeworth had already drank it. "It's supposed to make your dreams come true," he mumbled, his face burning. He was extremely embarrassed – what was supposed to be the most wonderful present ever had quickly turned into an accusation of poisoning. He couldn't think of a way things could possibly get worse.

But somehow, they did. "What are you talking about? Dreams? Just what is this?" Even though Mr. Edgeworth's tone had softened somewhat (though he still sounded rather angry), Gumshoe watched with horror as a problem he never could have imagined manifested itself. "What's the matter?" Edgeworth asked, his voice even softer as he stared up at the looming detective with concern. And then he realized what was wrong.

"_What the hell have you done to me?_" the rapidly diminishing prosecutor screeched, his voice laced with a tone that the detective had never heard from the normally collected prosecutor - fear. It shocked him. Edgeworth clutched at his suit as the once-custom-tailored outfit billowed around his shrinking frame, his eyes wild and filled with genuine fright. Gumshoe was at a loss for words, unable to do anything but watch in dual terror and awe as Edgeworth continued to dwindle down, stopping only when he had reached an impossible five inches.

A silence followed, in which a dumbfounded Gumshoe stared numbly and a flushed Edgeworth struggled to cover his body with the clothes that now lay in a heap around him. The quiet was finally broken when, regaining his voice, Gumshoe asked with quiet embarrassment, "This is what you wanted?"

He was met with a murderous scowl from the tiny man. "What on earth could make you think I wanted _this_ to happen?" The prosecutor's voice was altered; it was at least half an octave higher than the smooth baritone the detective was accustomed to, and much quieter. Gumshoe bit back a laugh.

"Um, well, it was supposed to make your dreams come true..." The detective murmured.

Realization flooded Edgeworth's eyes. "Oh, no..."

"What is it, sir?" Gumshoe asked immediately, unaware of the comicality that a man his size would call a man Edgeworth's size "sir".

"Last night. I dreamt that I was... like this. Now... it's come true."

Gumshoe quickly processed the information as Edgeworth began to pinch himself repeatedly. The old lady had meant it more literally than he'd thought – it had actually made one of Mr. Edgeworth's dreams come true. "This is bad," he groaned, stooping down to crouch in front of Edgeworth.

"_You think so?_" the minuscule prosecutor hissed sarcastically at the detective. "I can hardly perform my duties as a prosecutor in this state! I can't even perform simple every day tasks!" The impact of his own words struck Edgeworth as he finished speaking and his eyes widened. How could he _live_ like this? "Is this going to last... forever?" he whimpered, terrified of the answer.

Gumshoe almost didn't hear the question, Edgeworth was so quiet. But fortunately, he did hear it, and even more fortunately, he remembered the answer. "The lady who gave it to me... she said it would last for one moon." He wasn't sure how long that was, but the detective was sure Mr. Edgeworth would know – the man had a talent with those facts that escaped the detective.

"You're sure that's accurate?" Edgeworth snapped.

"Well, she was right about... this," the older man replied with a grimace, gesturing to the tiny man before him.

Edgeworth swayed in the gust from Gumshoe's gesture and considered the man's words. "If that's so, then this will last for about... a month."

Gumshoe was relieved; he'd thought a moon would be much longer than that. "A month? that's great!" he boomed, his voice so powerful that it actually did knock the young man over. The detective flushed a bright crimson as, upon falling, Edgeworth lost his grip on the hem of his shirt, exposing himself. He turned his head as Edgeworth stood, grabbing frantically at the shirt again as he realized what was visible.

"Great?" the prosecutor queried, deciding it was best to make no mention of the brief embarrassment. "How can you possibly see this as a _positive_ thing?"

Gumshoe shrugged slightly, his face still red. "It's better than forever, isn't it?" He was careful to speak quietly, not wishing to repeat that particular mistake.

Edgeworth sighed. "I suppose you're right."


	3. Chapter Three: The Arrangements

It had been a tricky feat to get Edgeworth out of the place without causing any suspicion. For one thing, he was naked, a fact which Gumshoe tried very hard to ignore (though his perpetually red face suggested that he wasn't being very successful). They'd realized very quickly that the best way to get Edgeworth out would be in a pocket, but Edgeworth refused, saying that the detective's trenchcoat was hideously dirty, and there was no way he'd allow his nude body to touch it for any length of time. In the end, Gumshoe had ended up removing the cravat from the prosecutor's now-useless suit, and Edgeworth had wrapped himself in it. That, of course, brought to their attention an entirely different problem – Edgeworth's outfit. Luckily, that one was fairly easily solved when the detective thought to put it into one of the file drawers of Edgeworth's desk – the prosecutor watching painfully as the thousand-dollar suit was roughly stuffed in, pressing against and crumpling several folders. The only problem that remained after that was the easiest to solve – explaining Edgeworth's absence. It was well-known by now to just about everyone that Miles Edgeworth did _not_ take losing gracefully, and was known to disappear for anywhere between an hour and several months after losing a case. So no one was going to raise an eyebrow if he vanished from sight for the next month without telling anyone, which was good – that was exactly what he was going to do.

Therefore, it was just thirty minutes later that Edgeworth calmly exited the building, safely hidden from sight in the pocket of a detective who had pretended very convincingly (more, in fact, than Edgeworth cared to recall) to be ill.

As Gumshoe made his way home, he couldn't help but feel Edgeworth's soft and warm body, bouncing softly against his outer thigh with every step. It wasn't long before he found himself thankful for his trenchcoat for several reasons. One: it did a very good job of hiding his budding erection from any passerby. Two: It prevented him from having to use a pants pocket, which would only have compounded that problem. Three: It prevented Edgeworth from being in a position to become aware of the detective's tightening pants.

And to think that so many people wanted him to get rid of it.

After an uncomfortably long walk, the two finally arrived at Gumshoe's tiny apartment. As he shut the door behind him, Gumshoe reached gently into his pocket and pulled out the small bundle that was Mr. Edgeworth. The small man, wrapped snugly in the cravat, had fallen asleep at some point during the walk, and now dozed peacefully in the detective's hand. Gumshoe found himself amazed that he had the chance to behold the prosecutor so fragile and vulnerable. It was really something. He gently set the man down on the coffee table.

Then, quickly entered his bedroom and relieved his tension.

It was as he was washing his hands afterwards that he heard the soft call from his living room, so quiet that it was hardly audible. He dried his hands off on a rag and strode to where he'd left Edgeworth, who looked up at him in annoyance. "Did you think that, when I awoke in a strange place with you nowhere to be seen, I would assume everything was fine and feel no cause for alarm?"

Gumshoe gulped. He hadn't thought of that. "I didn't expect you to wake so soon, sir," he answered truthfully.

"Tell me this, detective," Edgeworth growled. "What is it that was so important that you left me alone, with no regard for my safety?"

"I was, um... taking care of something," Gumshoe mumbled, blushing fiercely. "But I knew you'd be safe," he rushed on before Edgeworth had a chance to press further. "There's no one here but you and me, and I don't have any pets."

Apparently deeming it a satisfactory answer, the small man sat down with a sigh, shivering under his cravat. "Could you turn up the heat?"

"I'm sorry, sir. They shut off the heat last month because I couldn't pay. I should also warn you that on Tuesday, there won't be any water, either."

Edgeworth gave the larger man a calculating look. "Is your pay really that low?"

Gumshoe paused, confused. "You should know, Mr. Edgeworth. You're the one who keeps garnishing it."

A pang of guilt struck the miniature prosecutor. He'd never realized just how much he was taking from the poor man. "Detective," he began slowly, "when this is all over and I'm... myself again, I shall see to it that you're given proper wages."

"Really?" Gumshoe asked in disbelief.

"You have my word," the younger man answered.

"Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth!" If Edgeworth hadn't been five inches tall, Gumshoe would have hugged him then and there. He made a mental note to do so when the magic was reversed.

"Another thing, detective."

"Yes, sir?" Gumshoe cocked his head at the diminutive prosecutor.

"If I'm going to be living in your home for a month," he began, deliberately avoiding the phrase 'living with you', "then you'll need to dispense with the formalities or I may go mad. You may call me 'Miles'."

"But sir," Gumshoe protested, "you call me 'detective'."

Edgeworth considered this. "Fair enough. What's you first name again?"

"Dick," the detective answered, slightly put out that Mr. Edgeworth didn't remember.

"Very well," said the prosecutor. "I'll call you Dick." Gumshoe felt an odd warmth at hearing his name spoken by that voice (unusually high as it was).

"All right... Miles."


	4. Chapter Four: The Bed

It was a while before either man became accustomed to the first-name basis, a fact which only slowed them as they attempted to sort out arrangements for the coming month. However, they'd managed all the same to work out most of the details, and by evening, had only one issue left to address.

"I'll need clothes," Miles announced, attempting to stand. However, he found that the palm of Dick's hand was not the firmest ground, and he fell on his rear. "I can hardly spend a month with this thing wrapped around myself," he continued with a gesture to his cravat, refusing to blush and pretending he had not just made a fool of himself.

Dick nodded. "I thought of that, too," he replied, choosing not to mention the inexplicable disappointment that had accompanied the thought as he eyed the small prosecutor. "But where can we find clothes for someone your size?"

"Doll clothing seems like the best option," Miles answered. He looked none too pleased about it.

"Oh!" Dick's eyes went wide as he remembered something that might suit the prosecutor's needs. He moved towards his bedroom. It was messy at best (an avalanche at worst) and he inwardly cringed as he realized that Miles was no doubt analyzing the sight harshly, but all the same, he crossed the room and removed a small object from his window sill.

"You _sleep_ in here?" Miles asked critically.

"Yeah," the detective answered, shoulders slumping slightly. "I know I'm not the neatest guy in the world, but please don't make a big deal of it. Look at this." He hoped the new subject would be enough to hold the tiny man's interest.

Miles eyed the object in Dick's other hand. It was a Steel Samurai figurine, approximately his own size. But more than that, as opposed to a painted-on costume, it had fully removable clothing. Granted, the extent of that was a pair of pants, but it was still an improvement on his current situation.

"I know you can't wear just that for a month," the detective went on. "But until we can get some more clothes for you, I thought you might like to have some clothes to wear instead of your cravat."

"Thank you," Miles said softly. "I appreciate it."

Dick set the younger man gently down on the bed and left so he could change, sweeping aside a towel that bore evidence of his earlier activities in what he hoped was a subtle movement.

It wasn't.

Miles took the opportunity alone to take a second look around the room. It was true, there wasn't really much order to the place. But he did notice something that surprised him; most of the detective's things seemed to be well taken care of. He considered this as he pulled on the Samurai pants, then found that it made sense. Any man with a small budget and a good head on his shoulders would know to take care of what he had, because it might be hard to replace. Nonetheless, he was still surprised – it hadn't occurred to him that Dick Gumshoe might actually be an intelligent man. Remembering his curiosity about the towel he'd seen the detective move before, Miles approached the other end of the bed, where the cloth lay. He didn't even need to touch it to realize what it had been used for; he could smell sex. His face contorted in disgust as he realized that the only way the smell would linger so strongly was if it had been used recently; now he knew what the other man had been up to while he slept.

A frightening thought suddenly entered his head – _He didn't jack off to _me_, did he?_ His thoughts were interrupted as the other man asked through the door whether he was done changing clothes. "Yes," he called out as he dashed to the other side of the bed where he'd been left, not wanting the detective to realize that he knew what the man had been up to.

Dick walked in to find Miles sitting on the edge of the bed, looking slightly... guilty? Dick shrugged it off and picked the younger man up once more. "Is that better than the cravat?" he asked softly.

"Much," Miles replied. "I think I'll use this as pajamas."

Dick smiled. "That's good to hear, pal. And that reminds me - whaddaya say we call it a night? It's been a pretty tiring day." Miles agreed, and the detective set him down on the corner of the bed, grabbing the towel, and then some other laundry as an afterthought, in an attempt to prevent suspicion as he removed the dirty towel from the room. Miles wasn't fooled, but he said nothing as the older man left the room.

Minutes later, Dick returned, several things in hand, all of which he set down on his nightstand: an empty sardine can, a pincushion, and an unused handkerchief. He removed the pins from the cushion, then set it and the hankie inside the sardine can. "Will you need anything else?"

"These should do nicely," Miles responded. Hearing this, the detective picked him up and set him on the night stand, and Miles immediately set about fluffing the pincushion as Dick excused himself to change into his own pajamas.

When Dick returned, Miles was sitting patiently on the edge of the sardine can. "Shall we sleep now?" the young prosecutor queried. Dick nodded and watched Miles climb into his makeshift bed, then switched off the light and crawled into his own bed.

He was just beginning to drift off when he heard Miles' voice. "Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't sleep in this." His voice was soft, but his tone firm.

"Why not?" Dick asked, annoyed that he'd been pulled away from sleep. "You said earlier that it wouldn't be a problem."

"Yes," Miles answered, equally testy, "but I hadn't realized it would smell so awful."

Silence followed. "What do you want to do about it?" Dick finally asked.

"I don't know," Miles confessed. More silence. "Maybe..." No, that was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

"Maybe what?"

Miles sniffed the air, the sour odor of the sardine can overpoweringly strong. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. He'd surely get no sleep otherwise. "Maybe I could... sleep in your bed... but that's a stupid idea isn't it."

Because Miles' voice was already so soft, Dick didn't hear him trail off; all he caught was 'maybe I could sleep in your bed'. That was probably a bad idea, he reckoned. At the same time, though, he knew that if Miles would even ask, the tin would have to be pretty unpleasant, and it wouldn't be fair to make him stay in it. And on top of everything else, Dick was tired and didn't want to reason any more than he had to.

"Yeah, that's fine," he mumbled into his pillow. "I don't mind."

Moments passed, and he'd begun to drift off again, when once more Miles' voice stopped him. "Dick?"

"What now?" the detective asked, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice.

"How do you expect me to get there?"

"...Oh." Dick felt sheepish. His arm shot out blindly in the dark, hand grasping clumsily until he found Miles' body. He grabbed the younger man firmly and set him on the bed.

"Could you be any rougher?" Miles grumbled.

"Sorry," Dick grunted. He turned so he was facing Miles. In the dark, he could faintly make out the small silhouette before him. He gently pulled the blanket up to the prosecutor's shoulders and smiled softly.

"Good night, Miles."

"Good night, Dick."


	5. Chapter Five: The Bath

Two weeks passed, and the two men were able to slip into a routine fairly quickly. Every morning, Dick took Miles with him to work in his pocket. The prosecutor had refused to stay behind, and refused to admit that it was because he was scared of being home alone. "I'll go mad if I'm forced to spend that much time alone," he'd given as his explanation, but Dick knew better. Miles was an introvert by nature, and had no trouble spending long periods of time by himself. All the same, Dick humored him, inwardly flattered by the younger man's wish to stay near him at all times. At first, Dick had had a hard time remembering Miles was there – he nearly sat on him the second day in – but before long, he not only remembered the prosecutor's presence, but had even developed a semi-subconscious habit of putting his hand into his pocket and rubbing Miles' shoulder occasionally to reassure the young man that he was not forgotten. Miles didn't seem to object.

Dick would share his meals with Miles over the course of each the day, most of them consisting only of ramen. He was often amused by watching the young man struggle with the giant noodles, and sometimes teased him about the difficulty. Miles would glare in response, but never really seemed to be very bothered by it. When they were at work, they had to be more careful; Dick at first had tried doing lunches in the cafeteria, but when he got strange looks as some people caught him slipping noodles into his pocket, he gave up on that. Their new lunch plan was to leave the building. Of course, Dick couldn't afford to go out for lunch on his salary, so he generally ended up cooking the noodles at work, then taking them to a nearby park where he could usually share with Miles, as not many people visited the park during the day.

The only part that had been awkward was bathing. Luckily, that option was not taken away as Dick had anticipated, for Miles had told him of a hidden safe in his office, from which Dick took the money to pay for water – as well as his other bills - at Miles' insistence. "It's not just for you," he'd said when Dick had initially refused the offer. "If I'm staying here, I'll be doing so with basic living needs met, thank you very much." The trouble with baths was that Miles had a very difficult time bathing himself and, naturally, things became awkward if Dick had to assist him.

The first time had been a disaster. Dick had left the room after plugging the sink and filling it with water for Miles, who had every intention of doing the task with no help. But when his foot had accidentally nudged the plug and only the detective's quick response had prevented Miles from going down the drain, both men agreed that it was unsafe for Miles to bathe alone, however embarrassing the alternative.

And so it was for that reason that, two weeks after the start of the whole mess, Dick sat in his bathroom, looking anywhere but in the sink as Miles scrubbed at his body with the bit of sponge that Dick had cut from his dishwashing sponge (he'd assumed Miles wouldn't want to use a sponge that had come from his bathing sponge). "Soap, please," Miles called. The older man picked up his pocket knife and soap bar and shaved a few slivers of soap off for his companion, doing his best not to look at the naked man in his sink. "Thank you." Dick nodded and quickly turned his eyes to study the floral patterns on the wallpaper.

Miles laughed softly after a moment. "It's amusing how hard you try not to look."

Dick tensed slightly. "Would you rather I did?" he asked rhetorically.

"Well, no," Miles answered. "But it isn't the huge deal you're making of it. Didn't you have communal showers when you were in school?"

"I just... didn't want to embarrass you," Dick mumbled, feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"I'm not embarrassed." Dick allowed one eye to slide over to Miles, who looked up at him with an unreadable expression before returning to his bath, seemingly paying the detective no more heed. Surreptitiously, Dick studied Miles, taking in every aspect of the younger man's body.

What Dick noticed first, he was surprised to realize, was not Miles' physique, but his movements. He was almost graceful as he worked the suds into his skin, cleansing himself. There was a certain dignified air even in the way he bathed, which Dick was sure he must have picked up abroad.

He was on the wiry side, but with broad shoulders and a solid neck. He wasn't in poor shape, though it was apparent that he didn't spend much time on his body. His back had a much sharper arch to it than most men, but it didn't quite seem feminine. His backside was in a league of its own, decidedly masculine but surprisingly prominent. And his—

"Enjoying the view?" snapped an icy voice, startling the detective.

Maybe he hadn't been that surreptitious.

"i wasn't – I didn't mean to..." he averted his gaze, cheeks burning.

"I told you that you don't have to try so hard to avoid looking at me," Miles continued. "It wasn't an invitation to stare."

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to."

Miles frowned. "Sir?"

"Did I call you that?" Dick asked, startled.

"Yes."

"Oh... well, um, sorry..." Dick felt like he could sink into a hole in the ground he was so embarrassed.

There was a long silence before Miles said, "It's okay." Dick nodded numbly, still staring stonily at the wall. More silence. "I didn't mean to be so harsh before. I just got the wrong idea, that's all."

Dick continued to stare at the wall.

"I'm done," Miles announced after several uncomfortably quiet minutes. Dick helped Miles out of the sink, handing him a washcloth to dry himself with. Then he pulled the stopper from the sink.

"I'll leave so you can change," the detective said flatly as he stood. "Don't want you to get the wrong idea or anything."

"Dick, wait. Please." He ignored Miles and shut the door.


	6. Chapter Six: The Realization

Dick mimed banging his head against the door as he stood outside his bathroom. It had been _weird_ when Miles shrank. It had been _weird_ when they began sharing a bed (even though each man maintained a careful distance from the other). It had been _weird_ when he shared his meals with Miles. But this? This was beyond weird. It was mortifying.

Why had he allowed himself to look at Miles like that? Dick wasn't the sort of guy who looked at other guys. He knew with great certainty that he liked women. In high school, it had been that cheerleader...Tiffany? The one who was dating dark-haired Jake Quarterback. At work, he'd found his eye always on Maggey – she'd been dating Dustin. He paused.

_Why was it that he'd lost interest in every woman he'd liked as soon as she became single? _A shiver ran up his spine. He thought back to his first crush, a girl named Samantha, and realized that he wasn't sure if he'd spent more of seventh grade looking at her or her boyfriend, John. "Oh, no," he whispered, voice hoarse.

He decided to approach the situation differently, and considered how he felt about Miles Edgeworth. He had admired the talented young prosecutor since the day he'd met him. The strength of character, the firm control over every situation, and the quiet dignity with which he carried himself were among the traits that had kept Dick from taking his eyes off of the younger man. He was tall and handsome, and he had a physique that could be fairly impressive if he took a little more care of himself.

Dick thought of all the time they'd spent together as of late. He'd been happier in these past two weeks than any other time he could recall. Miles made him smile and laugh so often. And carrying the man in his pocket every day had resulted in more sessions alone than he normally held over the course of two months. In fact, he worried that the prosecutor might be catching on to how he spent his showers. But he did his best to keep _that_ hidden, worried that Miles would not take it very well. He couldn't handle the thought of Miles being upset with him – which was probably why he felt so crummy right now.

Dick carefully pieced together all he knew and felt about Miles and could only come to one shocking, frightening, inevitable conclusion. He was in love.

He sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands, frustrated now more than ever. What could he do? He certainly couldn't tell Miles – that would, without doubt, end in disaster. But as he considered what would happen when this was all over if he did nothing, his heart sank. Miles would leave, and they'd return to their former relationship, where Miles was Mr. Edgeworth, and he only spoke to the detective to chastise him. It made Dick feel like crying.

"Dick!" He heard a quiet, muffled call and realized with alarm that, while he'd been out here thinking, Miles was still stuck on the bathroom counter, unable to go anywhere or do anything by himself. Guilt gnawing at him, Dick pushed aside his swirling thoughts, stood, and opened the door.

"There you are." Miles' voice did not have the bitter edge to it that Dick had expected; all he heard was relief. He supposed that it had probably frightened the tiny prosecutor when he'd been left alone with no warning like that. The man had clothed himself with the tiny doll suit that had been left on the counter.

"I'm sorry, Miles," Dick said. He couldn't quite meet Miles' gaze, afraid of what his eyes might tell if he did.

"I'm not angry with you, I promise," Miles assured him. "Please don't be like this," he added when Dick was unresponsive. Dick looked up. When he saw the earnest expression on the prosecutor's face, he couldn't help but grin a little, and Miles smiled warmly in response.


	7. Chapter Seven: The Proof

"I think I want to take a nap," Dick announced several days later as the two men lay sprawled on the couch, Dick laying across most of it, and Miles taking up a small space near the older man's head. Miles glanced up at the detective, suspicious. The man didn't look very tired, and he had a peculiar expression on his face that made Miles wonder if perhaps his intentions were something else entirely.

"A nap sounds like a good idea," Miles agreed deviously. "I think I'd like one too."

"Well, I was sort of hoping to... by myself, actually," Dick responded, furthering Miles' suspicions.

"Why?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I just... I'd like to have my bed to myself," he ad-libbed. That was, at least, partially true.

Miles studied the man with an unreadable look, and Dick wondered if he'd been caught. "Fair enough," the prosecutor said finally, and it was all the detective could do to hold back a relieved sigh.

Miles was, in fact, fairly certain of the real purpose of this 'nap', but all the same, he had his reasons for relenting. He was going to find out once and for all if Dick was really spending as much of his time jerking off as Miles suspected. He ignored the part of his mind that asked why it really mattered to him and what he was going to do about it if his hunch turned out to be right after all.

He watched Dick cross the room and enter his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind the large man. Miles waited for several moments before jumping down from the couch and scurrying across the floor. He pressed his head against the door, but could hear no sounds coming from inside. So, very cautiously, Miles pressed himself onto the floor and crawled under the door.

What he saw as he emerged on the other side was exactly what he'd expected (he didn't allow himself to think the word 'hoped'), but he still felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach as he stared up at the giant of a man, eyes shut and hands moving. 'Oh my god,' was all Miles could think as his eyes fell upon the enormous cock, bigger than his entire body. He felt his pants tighten and was disgusted to realize that the sight turned him on.

Dick moaned softly as he continued his work, the speed of his pumping increasing. Miles, for his part, stood dumbly and watched, unable to move, or even to form a coherent thought.

Both men, however, were pulled firmly into reality when Miles sneezed. Snapped out of his daze, the tiny man realized that he needed to get out of there _now, _before he was caught. He turned to crawl back under the door.

"_Miles?"_ Oh, fuck.

Slowly, Miles turned back to face Dick, a deer-in-the-headlights feeling washing over him. He was met with a hard stare and gulped. Miles noted, with no small amount of embarrassment, that the detective's hand was still wrapped around his member; either the man didn't notice, or he didn't care. In any case, Miles found it extremely difficult to meet the older man's gaze.

"Why were you watching me?" the detective asked in a strained voice.

"I—"

"Why did you even come in here?"

"I—"

"And why—are you... are you _turned on_ by this?" Dick's eyes widened with disbelief as he finally saw Miles' bulging erection. Miles looked down and turned scarlet. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed his mouth again, realizing that he had no idea what to say.

Dick startled him by saying, amusement apparent in his voice, "You should be more careful doing things like this. I almost got the wrong idea."

If it was possible, Miles turned even redder, recognizing the words as a mirror of what he'd said to the detective several days ago. It had truly seemed at the time that the detective had been checking him out, but Miles had dropped the subject when he saw how hurt Dick had been by the accusations. Now, finding himself in a similarly embarrassing situation, Miles realized with mild mortification that he'd been caught doing the very things that he'd accused the detective of – and worse, as the erection he still sustained served as evidence of his own arousal. There was a long stretch of silence as Miles attempted to wish himself out of existence, and Dick studied the tiny man thoughtfully.

Miles wondered why Dick seemed to be amused by this situation. Shouldn't he have been angry, or at least embarrassed? Yet, he'd all but laughed at Miles. Why? Inwardly, Dick felt a certain sick pleasure at what had just happened – it was awkward, definitely, and embarrassing. But something about the fact that Miles had been turned on by it made the detective hopeful, wondering if there was a chance that the prosecutor might have feelings for him. His thoughts were interrupted as he realized that he was still holding his cock, and finally, a flush crept over his cheeks as he pulled his pants up.

Dick stooped to pick Miles up, but paused as he remembered what he'd just been doing. "I'll go wash my hands," he mumbled.

Something about the idea of being held by a hand that had just been gripping that monster cock made Miles incredibly horny. "No need," he responded dully. "I would just like to get out of here." Dick hesitated for a moment before shrugging and scooping up his friend.


	8. Chapter Eight: The Celebration

Several more days passed awkwardly. At first, Dick and Miles had persisted in uncomfortably avoiding meeting eyes, but by now, they had moved on from that to stealing glances at each other and blushing whenever they were caught. Dick had grown increasingly agitated over time, his desire to confess his feelings growing stronger. The only thing that held him back was the fact that he had no idea what Miles thought of him, and he was terrified that, were his feelings not returned, a confession would ruin the friendship that had grown between them.

"Do you know," Miles asked suddenly one evening as he sat on the kitchen counter, "that we have less than a week until this is all over?" Dick, who had been rummaging in the pathetically empty cupboard to find a ramen flavor besides pork, jerked up, startled. He bumped his head on the cupboard ceiling with a thump.

"Oof," he grunted, withdrawing from his search and softly rubbing at his scalp.

Miles winced sympathetically, but didn't spare his companion much pity, continuing, "I think we ought to celebrate the fact. Don't you?"

Dick considered this. In all honesty, he wasn't really that happy about seeing the end of their alliance. Sure, he wanted Miles to be able to do all the things that he couldn't right now. But he was going to miss living with the prosecutor, and truth be told, he thought that the tiny man was rather adorable in this state. Still, he didn't want to ruin Miles' mood, and so responded with as much happiness as he could fake, "Yeah, that sounds like a great idea!"

Miles beamed. "Excellent. How shall we celebrate?"

"You're asking me?" Miles nodded, and Dick leaned back against the counter, thinking. "Oh!" he exclaimed as he remembered something he'd stashed away a month ago, for a 'rainy day', so to speak. He opened the cupboard above the refrigerator and stuck his hand in, fishing around. "It's not anything special, but it's something," he said as he pulled out a small bottle of whiskey and set it down next to Miles.

The young man stared up at the bottle, twice as tall as he. "More than enough for the both of us I'd think, given my size," he commented dryly.

Dick chuckled softly and got out a glass cup and a roll of foil. Tearing off a small patch, he formed the foil into a miniature cup, which he handed to his friend. "Here." He'd been making these for over three weeks now, and had gotten fairly good at fashioning non-leaky cups.

"Thank you," Miles said as the detective poured some of the liquor for each of them. "To normality," he said, raising his foil glass.

Ignoring the pang in his heart, Dick raised his glass in response. "To normality," he echoed, and downed the alcohol in a single swallow.

It was not long before the alcohol was gone. For Miles, it had taken very little before he was making a fool of himself in very unflattering ways. He'd always been a lightweight, and his situation made it that much easier for him to get utterly pissed after a single cup. Dick, however, could hold his liquor far better, and even after downing the rest of the bottle, was only mildly tipsy. They both lay on the couch – Dick sprawled across the piece of furniture, and a shirtless Miles resting on his chest. Dick found that he was rather enjoying Miles' chattiness and disregard for clothing while inebriated, and made a mental note to get him drunk more often.

"Do you remember," gasped Miles as he laughed, "when I walked in on you?"

"In my bedroom?" Dick clarified. Miles nodded. "What about it?"

"I got really horny when I saw your... your..." Miles collapsed into a fit of giggles, unable to finish the sentence.

"...Really?"

"Absolutely," Miles responded, attempting to school his features. "it was _huge."_

Dick laughed. "It would be, compared to you."

"No," Miles argued. "I mean, _really_ huge." He spread out his arms in an attempt to convey the enormity he spoke of. "Here," he said after a moment, "I'll show you." With that, he attempted to stand, failed, and instead crawled down Dick's chest, making his way towards the detective's trousers.

"I don't think so," Dick said quickly, snatching Miles up before the tiny man could make it very far. Though he couldn't deny that the idea was incredibly appealing (and he found that even thinking about it caused his pants to tighten), he was sober enough to know that both of them (or at least Miles, who was too sloshed to know what he was doing) would regret it later if he allowed Miles into his pants.

Miles scowled. "Put me down."

"Then don't do anything you'll regret," Dick replied, gently setting his friend down on his chest again. Part of him wished he was less sober – maybe then, he'd have let Miles do it. Still, as it was, he knew better, and he sighed as he tried to ignore the discomfort that he now felt.

"I won't regret anything," Miles protested as he attempted to stand again, this time making his way _up_ the detective's chest.

"That's because you're not going to do anything," Dick responded firmly, wondering why Miles was crawling upwards.

"Come on," Miles insisted stubbornly. "...Don't you like me? You were looking at me in the bath last week. I saw. And... and I like you, too."

Dick groaned. Didn't Miles understand how hard he was making it for him to say no? Of course he didn't; he was drunk. All the same, though, Dick found his resolve breaking down. "You're just saying that because you're drunk," he protested feebly, having to cross his eyes to see the prosecutor, who was now straddling his chin.

"No I'm not," Miles answered. Dick sighed. A chatty Miles wasn't a problem. But he was no match for a horny Miles.

"Please don't hate me in the morning," Dick whispered as he gently kissed Miles' chest.


	9. Chapter Nine The Confession

"Nnnnngh," Miles moaned as he awoke, unable to think of anything but the sharp, stabbing pain in his head. He felt as though someone had left a blender full of hammers with the top off inside his skull. Wincing, he opened his eyes. "Augh!" He snapped them shut before he had a chance to see anything, the only vision sticking in his mind the searing light. Realizing that sight was not a painless option, he attempted to orient himself through feeling. There was something soft and warm beneath his belly. He reached out a hand and found that the surface was also somewhat prickly. To his left, he felt a pulse of warm air that pressed against him in a steady pattern. Completely perplexed, he realized that this was getting him nowhere. With a grunt, he opened his eyes and forced them to remain that way, blinking against the blinding brightness. Looking down, he realized that the soft warmth was skin, the prickliness was beard stubble, and the warm air was breath; he was draped across Dick Gumshoe's mouth.

_How did _that_ happen? _He wondered, feeling uneasy as he slowly climbed down and onto the large man's chest. He tried to remember what had happened the night before, but his memory was extremely unclear, and all he could summon up were vague and confusing snippets. All he was really certain of was that he'd gotten extremely drunk, and he made a mental note never to consume alcohol again.

Miles studied everything around him, trying to ascertain what he could about the night before. He felt slightly sticky, for starters. Of course, that could have been from sleeping without a shirt... which brought him to another detail. It didn't take him long to spot the shirt he'd worn yesterday, on the floor near the couch... and near a very large pair of trousers. A look at the sleeping detective confirmed it – they were Dick's pants. His unease increased and he shivered.

Miles couldn't shake the chilling feeling that _something_ had happened. Something he really ought to be remembering. _I'm five inches tall,_ he argued mentally against his suspicion. _What _could_ have happened? _He rubbed his temples, struggling to grasp the elusive memories that hovered just out of his reach. He spent a good three minutes, eyes squeezed shut, before anything came to him, and when it did, he found himself wishing it hadn't.

"Mmmph," Dick groaned, his body tensing beneath Miles as his muscles stretched. He let out an almighty yawn and licked his lips before opening his eyes and looking down at Miles. "Good morning," he said cautiously.

"What happened last night?"

Dick involuntarily winced. "Er... how much do you remember?" When Miles only glared in response, he sighed. "Turns out you get pretty horny when you're drunk, he mumbled."

Miles' eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare act like this was all my fault. The liquor was _your_ idea."

"I didn't know you got drunk so easily!" Dick protested.

"What happened was unacceptable. Completely unacceptable."

"Come on," Dick started, holding up his hands. "It's not all that big a deal, is it? I mean—"

Miles cut him off. "Now a big deal? _I rode your cock. Literally." _Miles' eyes widened and he covered his mouth. Saying it out loud made him realize the full impact of it. "Oh my god..."

Dick closed his eyes and sighed. Why had he been so stupid? Why had he believed a drunken man that he wouldn't regret it the next morning? He was an idiot. Miles hated him. "Look, he muttered. "We were drunk." Partially true; Miles had been drunk. Dick had known full well what he was doing at the time, but certainly wasn't going to admit as much now. "People do stupid things when they're drunk, right? So that's all it was. A big dumb _mistake._"

Miles was quiet for a very long time as he thought about what had happened, and about Dick's words. Why was he angry? Was it because he was repulsed by the detective? As much as he'd assumed that was the case, he realized it wasn't as he thought about it. And then it dawned on Miles that he was only angry because he was supposed to be. He _should _be offended by the idea. He _should _be disgusted.

...But he wasn't.

As he thought about it, he had a sudden, stunning revelation. A revelation that didn't scare him, as he expected, but instead, gave him an odd reassurance that allowed him to let go of his wrath. He didn't need to be angry. The only question left was, would he take the chance? He had to. He knew if he didn't, he'd spend the rest of his life wondering. _This is it, _he thought. _The point of no return. _"No," he finally whispered.

"No, what?"

"It wasn't a mistake... not for me. I—I..." He faltered. He couldn't do it.

Dick's breath caught in his throat. Was Miles saying what it seemed like? Would he finally hear the words he'd spent nearly a month hoping and praying but never really expecting to hear? "Go on," he begged, eyes wide and desperate.

"I... I think I'm in love with you."

His heart skipped a beat and the whole world seemed to slow to a stop. _He said it. He really said it!_ Dick all but collapsed.

"...Miles?"

"Yes?" breathed the prosecutor.

"I'm in love with you too."


	10. Chapter Ten: The Conclusion

The rest of the week was the most glorious one of Dick's life – better even than the first two, in which he'd first begun to fall in love. His only regret was that it all had to end so soon. Truth be told, he was a little bit nervous about it. Since the moment he and Miles had confessed their feelings for one another, things had been positively idyllic; they had their own little world, one that consisted of just them. They could do things together that no other couple ever could. And they could be together at all times, no matter what. But when Miles returned to normal, Dick knew that things would change, and they would change a lot. Miles would have to return to work at the Prosecutor's Office. And then what? Would they tell others about their relationship? If so, who? Would they go out together in public, or hide behind closed doors and walls? Would Miles move in with him, or would he return to his own apartment and leave Dick alone in his? There were so many questions that he was afraid to ask, and he desperately wished that they didn't have to be answered quite so soon.

"I'm worried," he confessed on the final day. He lay in bed, a miniature prosecutor curled peacefully against his shoulder. He ought to have been at work, but given that it was the last day, it seemed best if they remained at home – if Miles were to return to normal at the precinct in front of everyone, there would be a lot of problems to address.

"About what?"

Dick hesitated. He didn't want to lay it all on Miles' shoulders – he knew how much the young man looked forward to becoming his old self again, and worried that, if he shared his concerns, Miles might feel guilty about returning to normal. Granted, it would happen anyway, so the issue was moot, but Dick still had his qualms. "About us. When you go back to normal, a lot of things will have to change. It's just... it'll be hard. I'm going to miss this."

To his surprise, Miles laughed. "Is that all?" At his partner's perplexed expression, he continued, "Yes, things will change. I don't deny that there are some things I'll miss, too. But the end of this won't be the end of us. We'll make everything work out, I promise."

Dick melted. "Do you mean that? Really?"

"I wouldn't say if it I didn't."

A long stretch of silence followed – a warm, comfortable one, unlike so many they'd had before, in which they simply enjoyed each other's presence, glad to have one another. Dick reflected, not for the first time, on just how lucky he was to be here with Miles Edgeworth. The young prosecutor entertained similar thoughts as well. The pleasant quiet was only broken when Miles let out a sharp, pained cry.

"What's the matter?" Dick asked as he jolted upright, scooping the man up in his hands. The worry that consumed him was as reflexive an action as breathing.

Miles gasped, eyes wide. "I... I think it's happening." Dick didn't need to ask for clarification; even if he hadn't been able to guess what Miles had meant, it became immediately and painfully evident as the prosecutor expanded, clothes ripping to shreds as he outgrew them instantly.

Dick was forced to drop Miles on the bed as the sudden increase in weight took him by surprise. He watched in awe as his lover grew and grew, until, all at once, he was again the tall man that he'd once known – the man who seemed like only a dream, it had been so long ago. Unable to think of what to say, he blurted out the first observation that registered in his mind - "You're naked."

"I know," Miles responded smoothly. He felt more riled up than he let show, however. It felt so strange, so alien for him to look in the eye the man who'd been like a skyscraper just moments ago. It was also the first time he'd ever been naked and fully sized before the detective. "What do you think?"

Dick searched for the words to tell the prosecutor just how beautiful he was, but couldn't find them. As he grasped for some sort of response, he realized he didn't really need words to express himself. Leaning forward, he captured Miles' lips with his own, kissing the mouth of the man he loved for the first time in his life. It was short but intense, and both men were panting slightly when they pulled apart.

Miles allowed a small smirk to tug at his lips as he looked at his lover. "Very well said."


End file.
